


Truth

by josephina_x



Series: Dimension 46’\-A [10]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (Ford does NOT feel safe), (and so he makes bad decisions), (and the results of), (poor Ford...), (where is my tea?!?! says Bill), Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Anxiety, Gen, One Year Later, PTSD, Post-Series, Post-Weirdmageddon, Psychological Distress, See You Next Summer, Sleep Deprivation, Stress, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, mental issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephina_x/pseuds/josephina_x
Summary: Ford begins to get a real sense of exactly what sort of uphill battle he’s going to be dealing with, in terms of Bill and Stanley. And then panics a bit. (Because sleep-deprivation is a thing, and so are high levels of stress.)No reason to worry about Bill, though! He’s used to putting up with Ford’s…Fordness. Of course. (Not that any of us are worried aboutBill; we are not.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic: Truth  
> Fandom: Gravity Falls  
> Pairing: n/a  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Spoilers: through the end of the series, and some of the books (Journal #3)  
> Summary: Ford begins to get a real sense of exactly what sort of uphill battle he’s going to be dealing with, in terms of Bill and Stanley. And then panics a bit. (Because sleep-deprivation is a thing, and so are high levels of stress.)  
>   
> No reason to worry about Bill, though! He’s used to putting up with Ford’s… _Fordness_. Of course. (Not that any of us are worried about _Bill_ ; we are not.)  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.  
> AN: Sorry about Bill probably coming across as very OOC here compared to canon. He’s just a bit… tired right now. And has no teeth left to give. (Uh, _figuratively_. At the moment.) Yeah…  
>   
>  (Same for Ford. Poor deary. Couple of not-so-sleep-filled nights and major amounts of stress will do that to ya, though, methinks. (Who wants his eyes, again?) *pats him on the head*)  
>   
> Speaking of stuff... in the hopes of helping to keep the timeline _somewhat_ straight(... _-ish_ ), since I’m jumping about a bit here, please note that this fic picks up right where “Lies” leaves off, in Ford POV.  
>   
> FYI, I know this may(?) seem(??) like a bit of a jump for Ford from the last fic(s) (“Fr[i]e[nds and E]nemies”, and also sort of “Lies”). I promise that it’s not (...supposed to be?)! :) --I’ll be filling in some of the interim later (...next?), to give you all a better sense of what-all’s been going on inside Ford’s stressy little head beyond and besides “just” this. :) ;)  
>   
> (--Whew! Man, I hope I pulled this off okay… ^_^;;;;; )  
>   
>  _Author’s Note, 2018-Jul-29: This fic takes place late-night on Day 11 of Bill Cipher’s return, immediately following the events of[Lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918627). An entire afternoon and most of an evening has passed since the events of [Fr[i]en[ds and En]emies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566594), and Ford has been sequestered down in the basement lab with Dipper and Mabel, who have been trying to help their great-uncle put himself back together after what happened out on the porch. Ford wasn’t feeling too safe before, and he’s feeling even less safe now. He’s worried to distraction about the safety of the niblings, and has no idea what’s going on with his brother, but from what the niblings have related to him that afternoon about what Stan has and hasn’t been doing with Bill, it doesn’t sound good. Ford hasn’t been sleeping well since Bill’s been back, and hasn’t been eating properly since Day 4, and..._

\---

The way Bill was staring up at him was a bit gratifying, in a way that Ford knew he should not at all be enjoying.

_But he was._

Bill had stilled in place when he’d first realised Ford was standing there, in front of the door, almost in the doorway. He’d gone expressionless for a moment, given off no reaction. But after Bill had tilted his head back and gotten a good look at him, Bill’s cat-like eyes had refocused in a way that was clearly a shock and a fear response -- his eyes had widened at the edges until the whites were entirely visible around the edges, pupils dilating until they were almost round in shape. His jaw had even gone slack, his mouth dropping open, lips parted ever so slightly.

‘ _Good,_ ’ thought Ford. Bill _should_ be afraid of him. ...He **needed** Bill afraid of him. (Axolotl help him, he needed…)

Ford stifled a shudder with ruthless self-control.

“Bill?” The gravelly low-pitched call carried out of the room and into the hallway past the triangle demon, for Ford to hear, as Bill stared up at him.

He saw Bill blink, his mouth close, and his eyes unfocus for just a moment, before Bill refocused on Ford again.

Notably, Bill _wasn’t_ smiling.

“...Yes, Stanley?” Bill said evenly, giving the bare minimum response to Stanley. Bill kept his head tilted upwards towards Ford’s face as he did so, not quite taking his eyes away from Ford’s own, in every other way staying quiet and still.

“Where’re you goin’?” they both heard Stanley mutter, and though Ford couldn’t see him -- Ford could see an empty bed to his left, and the door was blocking the other side of the room from his view -- from the sounds of sliding cloth and creaking springs, Stanley sounded like he was shifting on his bed, potentially about to get up.

Ford tensed as he watched Bill take in a slow, full, deep breath and begin to open his mouth.

Ford lifted his hand and moved it to his sidearm.

Bill’s eyes moved down and to the right at the motion of Ford’s arm and he stared down at the gun. His eyes narrowed slightly.

There was a pause.

And then Bill’s eyes tracked to the left.

“I want tea,” Bill said almost petulantly, not looking at Ford. “So I’m going to the kitchen to make some tea.”

Ford saw Bill’s eyes flick up and to the left, then down and left, as Bill paused for about half a second.

“And then the bathroom,” Bill said next, and they both heard Stanley shifting in bed again. “--Which I _DON’T_ need your help with!” Bill added, with an almost-sharp, annoyed edge to his tone.

“Pretty sure you’ll need help makin’ tea if you try to do it with the lights off,” Ford heard Stanley half-mutter out at Bill, and Bill thinned his lips at the response.

“Then I’ll turn the lights on in the kitchen before I make the tea, _Stanley_ ,” he heard Bill say in full-on annoyance.

“Uh huh,” they both heard Stanley half-grunt out, and it left Ford feeling slightly confused at how amused and sardonic his brother sounded just then. “You do that.”

Ford watched Bill roll his eyes at no-one in particular in response to Stanley’s words.

“I know how to make tea without burning the house down, Stanley,” Bill muttered out. “You _know_ I can do this,” he added, getting louder as he talked. “You have _seen_ me do this!”

“When the lights are on, sure,” Ford heard Stanley said in an almost teasing tone, and at that, Bill let out a tired sigh and lifted his right hand to rub the tips of the fingers against his closed eyelids. The fingers of his left hand remained where they were, curled around the doorknob of the bedroom door.

“I’m not going to burn the house down, Stanley,” Bill said, in tones of very-tried patience.

“So you’ll turn the lights on, then,” Stanley said in almost encouraging tones, not quite a question, and it was very clear from how Stanley said it that not only did Stanley want a response, but also what response Stanley wanted to hear.

Ford felt an uneasy feeling growing in his chest at the exchange, one that did not get any better as he watched Bill drop his hand away from his face.

“YES,” Bill said, with full-on annoyance, staring a death-stare straight into Ford’s sweater-covered torso.

There was a long pause.

And then there was another shifting-covers bed-creaking sound, and Ford stiffened for a moment, about to try and run for it, because if Stanley got up, he would have seen him standing there in the hallway threateningly, right in front of Bill.

Then he had to stifle a quick intake of breath as he realized that Stanley wasn’t getting up -- he was _settling back into bed_ , instead.

Ford clenched his jaw and watched Bill through narrowed eyes, who he realized had just relaxed his grip on the doorknob, now that Stanley had settled, because... if Bill wasn’t trying to get Stanley to intervene on his behalf, to try to place Stanley between himself and Bill… if Bill was not only willing, but actually attempting to confront him alone, on his own, without anyone to back him up… then Bill _still_ wasn’t taking him seriously. Even after everything that had happened out on the porch earlier.

‘ _Well,_ ’ thought Ford, ‘ _We’ll just see about that._ ’

But his hands were shaking slightly as he thought it.

And the thought itself was unsteady, the idea of what he might find himself having to do to manage such a thing anything but a calming one.

Ford forcibly controlled his breathing, trying to regain and then maintain some semblance of control. 

“Any more ‘human wisdom of the ages’ that you want to impart before I go and get myself some tea?” Bill called out sarcastically to Ford’s brother.

“Yeah, kid,” they both heard Stanley say. “If my brother gives you any trouble, just yell. I’ll handle it.”

Ford closed his eyes for a moment in dread, because that was absolutely prescient, before opening them again.

...However, if Stanley had actually known that he was standing right outside the door, his brother wouldn’t just be talking about ‘what he’d do if Ford gave Bill any trouble’, oh no -- he would be getting up, out of bed, and launching himself at the door post-haste.

Stanley had made it _very_ clear from day one of Bill’s arrival, a little more than a week ago, _exactly_ how badly he would react to Ford even so much as _glancing_ down the _hallway_ at the door of his bedroom from the living room area... let alone what would happen if he actually _caught_ Ford physically standing **near** said room, now shared with Bill.

So, no. Stanley didn’t know Ford was standing there, and Ford didn’t feel any cause for concern at the idea of Stanley intervening. Not just yet.

Bill, on the other hand, went absolutely rigid at Stanley’s words. And Ford didn’t understand why, until Bill said, almost caustically, “I am perfectly capable of handling your sibling myself, Stanley.” He saw Bill pull in a breath. “But if it makes you _feel_ any better...” Bill added almost sarcastically, lifting his gaze without moving his head and locking eyes with Ford as he did so, while Ford was forced to stand there quietly and listen, or else risk exposure, “If your sibling decides to join me in the kitchen for a bout of _civilized_ conversation,” Bill said, with emphasis, “I will ‘happily’ hand him a cup of tea.”

“Eh,” said Stanley. “No spiking it with alcohol.”

Bill went expressionless again for a moment. Then Bill dropped his head back and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if imploring a being beyond himself for infinitely more patience than the universe was willing to grant him just then. “ _Fine_.”

“Or tabasco sauce,” Stanley called out next, and Ford could swear there was a suppressed grin in his brother’s tone, and-- really, what the hell was Stanley _doing_ , giving Bill ideas like that!? And _tabasco sauce?_ Who the _hell_ did _that_ to a cup of tea?! ...Oh for the love of the Tesla, had _his brother_ actually inflicted such a fate upon someone before??

He was in so much shock at the very thought that he failed to react in time to stop Bill before he’d spun around in place, putting his back to him. Ford was unable to do anything before Bill was already facing Stanley head-on, able to let Stanley know that Ford was--

“--Stanley Filbrick Pines, you utter _philistine!_ ” Bill spat out, in the most shocked and disturbed tones Ford had ever heard out of him, startling Ford. “I am _not_ going to do that to a _perfectly good_ \--!!”

“--Thought you didn’t think the tea was that good,” Stanley cut in like he was pointing something out, and Ford rocked back on his heels and resisted the urge to do a facepalm, because his brother was definitely grinning at Bill just then, he could _hear it_ in his _tone_.

“ _That is not the point!_ ” Bill hissed out at Ford’s brother, and from the set of Bill’s shoulders, he was _pissed_.

“Eh, fine,” Stanley said. “Don’t spike it, then.”

“I won’t!” Bill said. “I wasn’t going to in the first place!!”

“Yours, either,” Stanley added.

“ _Stanley--!!_ ”

“What?” said Ford’s brother.

“--I am _not_ going to **RUIN** my own tea, _horribly_ less-than-subpar to begin with or otherwise!!” Bill complained, sounding offended.

“Look, you want decent tea, you know what you have to do,” Stanley told Bill in reasonable-sounding tones that left Ford feeling more than a little light-headed. Because he’d been wondering what ‘deal’ Stanley must have set up in place to try and motivate Bill to… ‘get along’ with the rest of them, but he _never_ would have thought that Bill would actually trade _good behavior_ for something so simple as--

“Tch,” said Bill, bodily turning away from his brother again and back towards Ford. “I am _not_ going into town, to the grocery store with you, to pick out tea to drink,” Bill called out over his shoulder at Stanley, eyes narrowed, his words tearing through Ford’s thoughts in the process and negligently leaving them behind him in tatters. “That is the _worst_ idea in the _history_ of ideas, EVER!” Bill stated. “And I should know! I’ve SEEN PLENTY of them!”

“Well, then, I guess you’re not getting whatever tea you want, then, since you won’t be there to open it all up and smell it,” Ford heard Stanley tell Bill in a good-natured mumble, shifting around in bed again. “...Or whatever it is you think you’ll need to do to figure out which kinds you want,” he added, almost flippantly.

Ford watched as Bill hunched his shoulders inwards as if hunted and gritted his teeth, watched as Bill’s fingers curling inwards until they’d tightened into fists.

“I am _not_ going into town,” Bill repeated. “They are _not_ going to ‘nevermind’ me if I do that, you don’t want me killing people -- _UNLESS THAT’S CHANGED_ \--”

“It hasn’t,” Stanley put out there with a horrifying amount of ease.

“--and I and not _about_ to put up with a _mob_ of those idiots deciding to _march their way up your driveway_ ,” Bill continued, while raising a hand to rub at his closed eyelids with his fingers again. “It’s _not happening_.”

“Eh, suit yourself,” they both heard Stanley say breezily, as if he didn’t think any of that might be an _actual problem_.

And at that point, Ford felt a spike of anger, and the perilous urge to march himself right past Bill and into Stanley’s bedroom, to punch his brother in the face for being _so blasted obtuse!_ They’d _barely_ gotten the rest of the Zodiac to promise to remain silent on the matter of Bill Cipher being back -- Fiddleford had been _especially_ difficult on that front. But it had been their only option moving forward, in order to avoid a mass panic. Because if the entire _town_ knew that Bill was back, and that their ‘heroes’ were effectively hiding him at the Shack? Especially with the way his brother had been acting lately?! --Forget a mob, there’d be riots!

It was the other half of the equation that Ford didn’t like to think about, because the first half of it -- trying to keep Bill contained in the first place -- was already difficult enough (if not outright impossible…) and something that Ford felt he had failed at miserably to-date. Ford didn’t want to think about how difficult it would be to try and settle the good people of Gravity Falls back down, once they learned the reality of things as they now stood.

And it wouldn’t get any better, once the natives living here realized that they had no recourse and no say in the matter. Stanley refused to try the circle with the rest of them -- not before Ford could prove to him that Bill Cipher was actually Bill Cipher, in his own body and completely and entirely himself, stubbornly enough, yet Stanley was maddeningly making that downright impossible to do with how far he’d gone to restrict Ford’s access to Bill -- stubbornly insisting that Bill was ‘just a kid’ all the while. Once the people of Gravity Falls realized that Stanley Pines was the one and only individual standing in the way of their safety, sheltering in his home the very demon that had attacked the town and put them all through the worst and weirdest sort of end-of-the-world event, one previously unimaginable and barely averted...

...the demon who was currently standing right there in the doorway of the bedroom in front of him, with a look on his face that perfectly matched the way Ford was feeling about Stanley just then…

Ford glanced away from Bill, recentering his balance over his feet slightly, as he felt his anger and dread shift to a different and markedly more uncomfortable sensation for him to handle. He told himself as he did so that, just because Bill might have the same reservations as he did about certain things, did _not_ mean anything at all.

Far more pressing a problem than the townsfolk was that, magical binding or not -- which was yet another thing that Ford needed to know about Bill that his brother had kept from him, along with Bill’s clearly-undiminished capacity for performing magic -- Stanley did not seem to recognize Bill for the danger that he was. In point of fact, Stanley seemed completely oblivious to this fact -- at least, that was the only reason Ford could conceive of for why Stanley was refusing to try and perform the Zodiac circle with the rest of them. Stanley wasn’t stupid. Or evil. He’d put aside his differences the first time, to hold hands with the rest of them, to try and banish Bill.

And this was why Ford knew he had to prove to his brother that Bill was, in fact, Bill Cipher, and a clear and present danger to them all, post-haste.

Ford couldn’t contain or otherwise effectively restrain Bill himself -- that much was apparent now from what had happened out on the porch earlier that day. And in retrospect, he never should have taken Stanley at face-value before, when his brother had said that he’d ‘handle’ Bill, to not worry about containing Bill, that he’d ‘take care of him’ himself. But he’d trusted his brother, the hero who had destroyed Bill Cipher while letting himself be destroyed in the process, in a terrible pyrrhic victory to end the war and save them all, and…

(...maybe Ford shouldn’t have trusted him with it from the start. Lee’s sacrifice had been selfless, but Mabel had brought him back to himself rather easily, in retrospect. And now Bill was back as well. What kind of heroic sacrifice involved both the hero and the villain cheating death and surviving the experience, with no real consequences handed out of any sort?)

At least it _was_ clear to Ford now, from everything that both had and had not happened that day, that not only was his brother willing and able to _lie_ to him in order to cover for the demon, but that, from listening to him here, Stanley was clearly also patently refusing to put forth any effort into restraining Bill himself under _any_ circumstance at present.

The entire situation was unacceptable. This could **not** be allowed to continue.

And the simplest and more effective way to resolve the current impasse would be to convince Stanley that Bill was, in fact, the dream demon who had previously hurt and then threatened the niblings’ lives. Because once he _did_ , Stanley would do what he’d done the first time, and join the rest of them in completing the circle again. Only _this_ time, it would go very differently. _This_ time, Ford would keep his stupid mouth shut on any grammatical corrections that might be needed until _after_ they’d gotten rid of Bill, they would _not_ fight each other or let anything else disrupt the completion of the Zodiac spell, and then--

“ _ **YOU!!**_ ” Bill half-yelled out, startling Ford out of his thoughts entirely. “STOP IT, Stanley!”

“Hmm?” Ford heard his brother hum out inquisitively, as he tried to lower his pulse rate to something that _didn’t_ resemble a pulse cannon stuck on auto-fire.

“DON’T GIVE ME THAT!” Bill snapped out, looking angry, half-turning around to look back over his shoulder again, presumably glaring straight back at Stanley again.

“Give you what?”

“You are trying to DISTRACT me!”

“I am?” Ford heard Stanley say far, far too innocently.

“Yes!” Bill ground out.

“You sure?” Stanley said.

“YES!” Bill huffed out a breath. “I cannot _believe_ that I am LETTING you--” Bill stopped talking abruptly, pausing for a moment, then pointed an angry finger back in the direction he’d been glaring. “-- _Oh, no you don’t!_ ” he said warningly. ”I’m _ON TO YOU_ , Stanley Pines, and _I’m NOT FALLING for it!_ ” Bill declared abruptly.

“You’re not?” Ford heard Stanley say with far, far too much amusement, and this was just… getting _ridiculous_.

Bill let out another agitated huff of breath. “I am _not_ going back to bed right now, I am going _out there_ and GETTING MY TEA!” Bill declared, waving his hand back at the doorway behind him, his fingers coming within a bare two inches from Ford’s chest as he did so. Bill then spun back around on his heel in place to face the doorway Ford was currently blocking.

“And then the bathroom,” Stanley said breezily, with an undertone that Ford couldn’t quite parse, as Bill started to take a step forward.

“I-- _what?_ ” Bill said, halting his forward motion mid-step.

Then Bill not-quite froze stiffly in place and got a long dead-staring look, hand still on the doorknob next to him.

“Yes,” Bill said flatly. “That is a thing that I said I would do,” Bill said, in tones that remained consistently flat.

Ford had watched the eye on the left-side of Bill’s face twitch multiple times as Bill had talked, and at Bill’s words, Ford thought with a growing disquiet, ‘ _You liar._ ’

Then Ford heard his brother _chuckle_ in response to Bill’s blatant lie, and Ford stiffened for a moment, before grinding his teeth together in anger.

\--No, Stanley wasn’t taking Bill seriously at all. Not one bit. Ford could hardly believe that Stanley could _be_ so lax with the niblings’ safety!

...Well, if Stanley wasn’t going to keep a close eye on Bill, to know where he was and what he was doing at all times, rather than just letting him _wander around the Shack at night_ at all hours, then Ford would have to take the task on himself. ...Axolotl help him.

Bill snarled out something under his breath at Stanley that Ford didn’t quite catch -- not beyond being able to note the nasty tone of voice used, and the realization that whatever language Bill _had_ been used had decidedly _not_ bore even a passing resemblance to the Standard American English that Ford himself had learned growing up, given the pattern of composition lent to the pronouncement of the words themselves.

But then Ford had no more time for thought for a few breathless moments, as he had to expend all of his focus in backwheeling abruptly into the hallway.

He did so in order to move himself bodily out of Bill’s way, as Bill made a credible effort at stomping his way through the doorway as though Ford were not, in fact, present and fully blocking his pathway forwards.

The part that had required such focus and attention to detail had been his own speed, balance, and foot placement -- in order to not only quickly move out of the way, but to also time his footfalls with Bill’s in order to hide the sound of his movement from _Stanley_ , while also making the motion look both effortless and deliberate to an outside observer like Bill himself -- as he sidestepped to his right to loom over Bill at the hinged edge of the door, almost sentry-like in his stone-faced overwatch of the demon.

...Leaving the way clear for Bill to stomp his way out of the room, yanking the door closed behind him in the process, and then turn away from him, in the direction opposite of Ford, to then continue stomping down the rest of the hallway.

In the direction of the living room and kitchen.

Ford’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he stepped forward, timing his footfalls with Bill’s. Because Bill couldn’t actually be thinking of-- he couldn’t truly be _intending_ to actually make himself a _cup of tea_ in the dead of night in the Shack’s kitchen while Ford looked on and _watched_ , could he?!

\--This wasn’t Bill’s house or his home! How... how _dare_ he?!?

Ford started after Bill, his body nearly vibrating with shock and rage.

Because did-- did Bill really think he was a _welcome guest_ here?!? --He wasn’t a _guest_ , he was a **prisoner!** The utter _gall_ \--

With his longer stride, Ford caught up to him quickly, within seconds.

And when Bill passed the end of the hallway that opened out onto the living room area of the Shack, and turned to his right, rounding the corner, yes, clearly _intending_ to move in the direction of the kitchen -- _or possibly heading for the stairs to the second floor above, where the kids’ attic bedroom resided_ \-- Ford reached out with his right hand and grabbed Bill by the right bicep, to physically haul him back to his side.

And at this comparatively mild treatment, Bill had the audacity to crane his head back at him and _toss a scathing look up at him_ , as though he thought there was something wrong with _Ford_ , rather than with his _own_ behavior!

The way Bill shrugged off Ford’s hold was just insult added on to injury. Bill dropped and rotated his right shoulder with a jerk, stone-faced, _tearing_ it out of Ford’s hold abruptly as if the touch of Ford’s hand was somehow _disgusting_ some way--

Ford stiffened in place self-consciously. And then it occurred to Ford in a flash what Bill must have been implying with his actions -- what Bill _actually thought_ of the touch of Ford’s _six-fingered_ hand on his person -- Ford saw red.

His left arm shot out like a striking snake. He grabbed Bill’s left arm and, gripping it tightly enough within his hand to leave bruises, forcibly dragged Bill back towards him again, this time bringing Bill’s back nearly up against his chest.

And with his right hand he unholstered his gun and lifted it up fluidly, up along Bill’s spine, to place it between Bill’s shoulderblades, with a light but solid warning touch.

\--A touch which was _too_ light, apparently, because Bill only seemed to freeze into motionlessness for once long moment. Then Bill made a soft scoffing sound and tried to rip himself free of Ford’s hold again -- this time without success.

And in response to this… Ford felt his very last nerve fraying beyond repair.

The rising surge of _panic_ he felt at Bill’s obvious lack of fear for his own safety in Ford’s presence and within his direct power and influence didn’t help matters, either. Because he could not have Bill calling his bluff on this. He could _not_. Because if Bill _did_...

If Bill called his bluff, then Ford would shoot him. He’d have to. He’d have no choice _but_ to shoot him. He had no illusions about that, now. Not after what had happened out on the porch.

It was meant to be a bluff. Raising his gun, the threat of shooting-him-to-kill. It was meant to be a bluff that should never be called.

Logically, Ford _did not want_ to shoot Bill with _this_ gun. Logically, he knew it was a bad idea. Everything he’d said before out on the porch still applied -- he had no idea whether shooting Bill would actually kill him dead or not, and given their present experience on that very subject… killing Bill, even while he seemed to be more physically vulnerable to such at present, might mean nothing more than a short span of time passing before Bill _came back_ **again**.

Nothing would change if Ford killed him, except for the likelihood that Bill might come back _more powerful_ \-- and for a certainty a great deal _angrier_ \-- than ever, this time with whatever magical binding he currently had that connected him to Stanley _broken_. He’d no longer have anything restricting him, in whatever small way he might (or might not) currently be, given Stanley’s high levels of reticence on the matter of the demon actually being a demon at-present.

Ford knew _all_ this. He knew it. He did. Trying to kill Bill as he was right now, without knowing more about exactly what state Bill was in, and how to prevent the demon from coming back -- there _were_ ways to prevent a rebirth or reincarnation, Ford knew _that_ much, and for Bill the Zodiac spell was one of them, perhaps the _only_ one -- trying to kill Bill any other way was a _very very bad idea_. He knew this!

But he was also scared to death of Bill Cipher.

Because after what had happened out on the porch… he knew that Bill could take him apart with nothing more than a handful of minutes and a few dozen cutting and well-placed words. He knew this now, when he hadn’t before. But the niblings were right. His deal with Bill… he hadn’t _realized_...

But now… the deal was off. The gloves were off. Bill wasn’t playing anymore.

Bill wasn’t _playing nice_ anymore, and Ford mentally shuddered at the very thought. Because Ford had thought that he’d suffered through the very worst Bill could do to him _before_. But he’d been wrong, so very, very wrong. He’d been wrong, and he had no such pretty illusions to hide behind now. Not anymore.

Bill was _perfectly capable_ of torturing him with words alone -- and far more effectively, too. By comparison, the electric shocks he’d suffered through and cursed and survived in the Fearamid had almost been a blessing by comparison. Given something to fight against…

Physical torture hadn’t broken him yet; at this point, Ford wasn’t sure if it ever would, if it ever could.

But Bill’s words to him out on the porch… almost had.

The nerve damage after Bill had stopped physically torturing him had been minimal. Bill obviously hadn’t wanted to risk damaging his nervous system too badly, since that included his brain and the information Bill had wanted residing within it. It had taken longer for the burns the manacles had left on his skin to heal, but he’d handled burns of all sorts many times before; once he’d had a chance to visit his lab, and retrieve and apply the usual all-purpose healing ointment he used for such, he’d recovered from those wounds within seconds. He’d really suffered only the odd muscle twitch or two in the minutes and hours following… well, and later the usual assortment of nightmares of varying intensity that he’d expected to have after such a harrowing set of experiences.

The words Bill had used on him, out on the porch, had already outstripped the physical torture by far, as bad as _that_ terrible experience had been. (--And wasn’t that _just like Bill?_ Just when you might think that things couldn’t get _any worse_... well, _of course_ they did. _Of course_ Bill made them worse. Because that was what he did. That was what that **demon** did.)

The words Bill had used on him had done far more lasting _damage_ , as well -- _he’d still been shaking for **hours** afterwards._ Something would set him off, some little thought, and… even Mabel’s hugs and Dipper’s quiet and staunchly supporting manner had barely calmed him down from a complete _basketcase_ to… nearly somewhat functional again. Almost. ...And nightmares were likely to be the least of his worries out of the experience, by comparison, because he couldn’t fall asleep.

\--Literally _could not_. The best he’d managed thus far was a half-awake haze slumped across the videofeeds down in the basement, and he didn’t expect better anytime soon. Because _that_ had only been after _hours_ of the niblings’ effort trying to calm him down and make him _feel better_. Meditating -- _trying_ to meditate -- hadn’t helped. Talking -- what little he’d been able to manage without completely damning himself by saying _too much_ \-- had _barely_ helped, and if either of the niblings had even been a shade less solicitous, gentle, or accepting of what he _had_ told them...

Hugging -- _any_ comforting physical touch -- had been an uphill battle all the way, with Ford flinching away from them and feeling all the worse for it at the looks on their innocent young faces, trying not to _want_ it with a feeling of desperation, because he’d been _convinced_ that touching either of them would _infect_ them with a monstrous _wrongness_ if he did so, _knowing_ they would **hate** him _if they only knew_ \--

And that hadn’t been the end of it, either. Bill hadn’t been done with him. Bill hadn’t stopped on his own; he’d stopped because Mabel had yelled and because, ostensibly, for some reason that had meant something to Bill (-- though Ford’s mind stopped there and shied away from the thought out of fear of what that might mean for Mabel).

If Bill decided to _pick up where he’d left off_...

Ford had no way of convincing Bill to stop, because Bill wasn’t afraid of him. He’d have no reason to stop.

Ford would _have_ to shoot him dead out of mental self-preservation.

If Bill started talking again, talking about… about _that_ again... without Mabel or Stanley to stop him -- stop _either or both_ of them -- Ford knew he would likely panic and shoot Bill -- and _keep_ shooting Bill -- until his gun ran out of electricity to shoot him with. Stanley would likely have to pry it from his cold and shaking hands, and Ford would likely fight him to keep it.

If Bill started talking again-- he needed Bill to _not_ start talking again.

In a moment of clarity, it occurred to Ford that he shouldn’t have let Bill let him take himself and go off alone with him.

This had been a mistake. He needed Stanley to--

Stanley wouldn’t help him. He needed to drag Bill off downstairs by the scruff of his neck to-- Stanley wouldn’t let him do that.

But Mabel might-- he couldn’t risk Mabel.

Dipper-- Bill would just get angry at Dipper and hurt Dipper, as well.

Ford was alone in this. But if Bill started talking again--

Ford couldn’t stop what he was doing, disengage, and run. If Bill sighted weakness-- Bill would go on the attack immediately, and Ford would be _worse_ than dead.

It occurred to Ford, in a small and distant corner of his mind, that he knew what the _real_ problem was. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, from lack of sleep and stress. He’d managed to learn to recognize the signs, over thirty long years of life on the other -- the _wrong_ \-- side of the portal: ping-ponging emotions; a lack of mental focus; barely-controllable surges of anger, dread, and fear; uncontrollable shaking of his hands and body; paranoid urges; violent thoughts; stressed reactions. Things always went badly when he tried to act under these circumstances, any time he was like this.

...But he also knew that he _couldn’t_ stop. Not now. Because right now he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t calm down, and until he could do both of those things there was no way that he’d be able to come up with anything better. And the only way to fix _that_ would be to power through and somehow fix _this_ , this current and most-immediate problem with Bill. Things would only get worse if he tried to stop now.

But he didn’t know how to fix this.

He was holding onto Bill within the Shack with a gun pointed at him, under a mystical barrier that was suppressing anything magical or weird that Bill could ever attempt, all of which should have Bill thoroughly feeling threatened, restrained, and subject to his power under what was clearly a life-and-death situation for him… and Bill was not scared of him in the least.

…Bill had also not been scared of Ford earlier out on the porch, when Bill had ripped his arms straight through a pair of explosive metal restraints as though they hadn’t even been there, because Bill had… been able to... _get free_.

And with that thought, it finally occurred to Ford that Bill had performed magic and/or weirdness under the restrictions of _both_ a set of anti-magic restraining runes _and_ a mystical barrier that was _supposed_ to suppress any magic or weirdness that Bill could attempt, both of which Ford had _just checked_ not minutes before their confrontation and had _known_ to be working at the time.

\--He had _not_ thought this through. He needed help. But he couldn’t _risk_ asking for help.

The resulting surge of terror narrowed Ford’s focus further.

If Bill started talking again--

He needed to keep Bill quiet.

Simple threats wouldn’t do it.

A **worse** threat _might_.

\--What was a worse threat?

All of this blazed through Ford’s mind in a shivering instant, as Ford roughly jerked Bill back into place and lifted his gun even higher -- _double-or-nothing!_ , he heard the echo of Lee’s voice exclaim inside his head, and had to stifle a hysterical giggle. ‘ _Give him something to think about, the risk of losing **thought**_ ,’ something that defined Bill, something that Bill would actually care about. Something that was _all Bill was_ , as a being of _pure energy_ before this -- pure _thought_. Disrupt that thought, and… what was Bill?

Ford swallowed hard as, this time, he _shoved_ the muzzle of his gun up and into the junction between the base of Bill’s _head_ and his spine, _hard_ \-- hard enough that Bill’s back nearly arched with how far he had to straighten up to keep his head anything like on-level, with the pressure being applied to the base of his skull. Aiming at the very _seat of consciousness_ itself.

He knew full well that what he was doing and -- what he was _playing with_ \-- what he was planning to do was a very, very bad idea.

‘ _Please, please let this work._ ’

...Bill didn’t yell. He remained silent.

Ford came a hair’s breadth from crying tears of relief.

Ford didn’t waste time waiting for Bill to decide whether he wanted to risk trying to yell for Stanley in the interim -- _he could not let Stanley stop him now_. He pushed Bill in front of him into a forced-march, left hand firmly directing Bill’s movement forward, the gun an ever-present threat to help keep the pressure up.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

\---

‘ _It will be fine,_ ’ Ford told himself shakily, as he forced Bill forward at gunpoint through the living room and up to the door leading to the Mystery Shack’s gift shop. He did _not_ want a repeat of what had happened out on the porch, the last time he had threatened and attempted to corral Bill. And maybe his breathing began cycling a little too fast at the thought, but his hands remained steady (‘ _please, please let them remain steady…_ ’), and his thoughts stayed firmly off of that rather loaded topic.

Instead, his _mind_ was already working desperately several steps farther ahead. Instead, Ford forcibly kept himself as preoccupied as possible with what _needed_ to happen once they were well past the vending machine entrance to downstairs. He avoided the question of _what will Bill say to me this time_ by the simple and expedient method of full engagement with the preoccupying concern of _what needed to happen next_ , quickly synthesizing and refining a very abrupt and off-the-cuff set of plans.

Because he well knew that he’d better _have_ a working plan at the ready on what he’d need to do in order to force Bill into a very necessary piece of scientific equipment downstairs, _before_ they got down there, or…

But he could do it. He could do this before Bill struck back. It would be fine. It _would_ be.

...and as far as Ford was concerned, it _would_ be fine because Ford would _make_ it fine. He _would_ get the evidence he needed against Bill. He _would_ show it to Stanley. He _had_ to. --And then Stanley _would_ agree with him, and then they could perform the circle and vanquish Bill, finally defeating him once and for all -- because, clearly, merely destroying him hadn’t been enough to truly stop him from coming back -- and then they would all be _safe_.

Ford _needed_ Stanley to agree with him. And it wasn’t just an exercise in petty stubbornness or mental fortitude, or out of some perverse desire for an acknowledgment from Stanley of ‘being right’ all along. Bill might insist that Ford knew nothing of how magic worked, but Ford _had_ picked up a thing or two from his research over the years.

And if there was one thing that Ford knew about magic, it was that _intent mattered_.

You had to know at least _something_ of what a spell was _supposed_ to do in order for it to work: for example, if you thought a barrier spell was supposed to create fireworks and tried to cast it, absolutely nothing would happen.

Similarly, if you knew exactly what a spell was _supposed_ to do, but you wanted it to do something else, then sometimes… _sometimes_ you could _twist_ it, if what you **really** wanted was close enough to the original purpose of the spell.

You couldn’t use a human-to-frog curse to turn lead into gold, for instance, what with biological transformations and mineral transmutations being very different beasts. But, you _could_ shift a human-to-frog curse into a human-to-lizard curse with strong intent, or flip it to make a frog-to-human curse instead (-- most easily by reciting it backwards).

A barrier that was meant to keep things in for study could keep those same things out, with a minor modification to the order of the spell components’ use, a modification mirroring the change in intent.

A small firestarting spell that was incant-only -- requiring no spell components as a focus to generate the small flame -- could, with no change to the recitation... be used to _put out_ a small fire instead, with a _very strong_ reversal of intent, or even to _chill_ something small if one was truly skilled at magic and able to apply _that_ much focus.

And a circle that was supposed to defeat a demon...

They could tie Stanley up in chains and force him into his place in the circle. They could even physically force Stanley to hold hands with them. But the Zodiac circle was a type of magic spell. And that meant that if Stanley didn’t **want** the circle to work, then it _just wouldn’t work_.

And they couldn’t just get away with knocking Stanley out for the duration of the spellcasting, either. Intent was active, not passive. And just as the circle required all of the Zodiac members to hold hands, in order for it to work, the circle also required _all_ of them to be actively _wanting_ to get rid of Bill at the same time, in order for it to work. --Every last one of them. Stanley had to be awake, in the circle, and _in agreement with them_ in order for it to work.

That was why he needed Stanley on his side for this. It wasn’t just some self-centered, egotistical, and potentially futile exercise in proving some level of brotherly superiority over his younger twin, no! -- _It was **necessary** for their continued survival!_

So, as far as Ford was concerned, what must happen next was clear. He would bring Bill downstairs and then he would--

“Grunkle Ford?” he heard as he shoved Bill through the ‘employees only’ door into the Shack gift shop, and Ford stopped in place, staring.

“Mabel?” Ford said, not quite believing his eyes, as he looked past Bill’s shoulder and down at the two niblings, who were standing just outside the secret vending machine entrance to the elevator to the basement downstairs. “What are you doing up here?” Ford breathed out, as he stared at both her and Dipper. “--I told the two of you to stay downstairs!” he exclaimed under his breath, mindful of how far his voice might carry. The walls of the Shack weren’t _that_ thick.

But he couldn’t stop the heady and happy thought of, ‘ _praise the Axolotl, I’m not alone!_ ’ Nor could he stop the sheer and overwhelming feeling of _relief_ that engulfed him at the sight of the two of them, alive and awake and well and _worrying_ about him, caring about and worried _for_ him. He couldn’t stop it, not even if he wanted to.

...Unfortunately, he also could not stop the shakes that started, when those thoughts and feelings ran through him.

He knew Bill had noticed, and the only thing he could do was tighten his grip on both Bill and his gun, and try to recover some part of the situation by saying… by saying...

“Grunkle Ford, are you all right?” Mabel asked of him, looking even more worried with each passing moment.

...And that was when Ford realized that he was _visibly_ shaking in place where he stood.

“I-- ah--” Ford stammered out, words failing him. “...Y-yes?” he tried.

He doubted he was fooling Bill. He _definitely_ wasn’t fooling Mabel -- not even for an instant, bless her -- not with the frown she was sending up in his direction, _or_ the way her hands had moved from her sides to her hips when she then turned that same frown on Bill.

“Bill, what did you do!” Mabel demanded quellingly out of the dream demon Ford was holding in front of him -- almost like a shield, now that he thought about it -- and clearly, _clearly_ Mabel could not see the gun Ford was holding on the dream demon from her vantage point.

Ford couldn’t see Bill’s face, but he could hear him just fine. And Bill, for his part, let out an annoyed-sounding huff of breath at Mabel’s demand, and _didn’t say anything at all_.

So Mabel frowned up at Bill _harder_.

Dipper, for his part, was glancing suspiciously between the two of them -- his sister and the human-looking dream demon.

It was all Ford could do not to crack under the strain and start _laughing hysterically_ at the situation he’d somehow found himself in.

...And now Mabel was tapping her foot at him. Or maybe Bill. One of the two of them. ...Ford _really_ should say something.

“ _Bill_ ,” Mabel repeated, and he really, really, should. Say something. ...Or maybe Bill would?

Bill let out an annoyed and unintelligible grumble at her, and deliberately crossed his arms across his chest.

Ford was smiling for some reason, though if anyone had asked him, he couldn’t say why.

(He lowered his gun slightly, down to the center of Bill’s back again, without really thinking about it.)

But he really _should_ say **something**. ...Preferably before Bill did first.

But as Ford opened his mouth, about to say… _what_? well, he wasn’t entirely certain, but he was certainly meaning to say _something_ with a reasonable amount of coherency, before Mabel got even more short with either of the two of them…

...when he heard a voice behind him say, “Ford. What are you doing.”

And Ford stopped and stiffened in place.

At the sound of Stanley’s voice, _so did Bill_.

‘ _Ah,_ ’ thought Ford.

\---


End file.
